


Me, I’m Nice (I Ain’t Walking Out of Your Life)

by orphan_account



Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Couple Squabble, Cuddling, Drabble, Fluff, Homicide, Hurt/Comfort, Knife murder, M/M, Mention of sexual predators, Sort Of, Vacation, corpse, little dark little sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 05:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18230327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Slade loses his knife, Dick is upset.





	Me, I’m Nice (I Ain’t Walking Out of Your Life)

Slade blinked down at the body he’d propped up against a tree. The man, in his orange vest and camouflage outerwear, looked nearly peaceful but for the gaping knife wound in his chest and the evidence of postmortem expulsion.A bird screeched somewhere in the distance, and Slade scowled.

He hadn’t meant to kill him. Slade had been stalking a pretty herd of deer, some venison for his evening, when a bumbling hunter Slade had chosen to ignore until that point, stepped on a fallen branch with a deafening crack. The deer fled and in his frustration, Slade lost one of his throwing knives. In the man’s chest. Across the clearing.

The gravity of the action set in after the fact. On an outing with Wintergreen, such a capricious tantrum would earn him little more than rolled eyes as a reproach. Maybe a dry comment about prioritizing dinner over inconveniences.

But Slade wasn’t with Wintergreen. Slade was with Dick, as a part of scheduled visitations for which both made pre-negotiated concessions. Dick conformed to Slade’s calendar, Slade allowed Dick to organize the outings with unlimited access to Slade’s credit card. Dick didn’t discuss Joey or Rose, Slade didn’t discuss Bruce. Dick did not proselytize, Slade did not kill. It was a good system, one which allowed them to enjoy each other’s company and maintain their fair-weather relationship.

Except Slade had broken one of their rules of engagement with his little knife stunt, and not a flexible rule either. 

Slade sat cross-legged amid the pine straw and dirt and began to clean the blood from his knife with blade oil and a towel he kept in the pouch strapped to his thigh. Dick called it a purse, but Dick’s apartment key regularly fell from its place in his boot warranting a twice-monthly change of locks, and so Slade took Dick’s teasing for what it was worth.

“I could dump you in the creek,” Slade offered the deceased. “Or just piss on you and hope a bear picks up the scent.”

Neither would be effective; a dead body, even a mangled one, would attract attention from locals, and Dick had been making daily trips into the nearby small town to socialize and buy out the general store’s cache of junk food. If news of a dead hunter, one with a knife wound, circulated, Dick would know Slade was the culprit and he’d be fighting mad over it. If Slade attempted to cut their retreat short, Dick would be suspicious and he’d investigate on his own. Which would result, as before, in a fight that could only end with one (1) pouting sometimes lover and one (1) escrima stick shoved down Slade’s throat. Slade’s best option was to tell Dick himself, and pretend to be contrite.

“Cock block,” Slade accused, pointing at the corpse with his freshly oiled knife. The corpse didn’t reply, so Slade sheathed his knife and stood, only to close his eyes and curse when he heard the crunch of underbrush and the thumping weight of someone dropping in behind him.

“You should stop trying to land on your feet,” Slade said, glancing over his shoulder at Dick, who transitioned into leggings and a hoodie from when Slade left him in bed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Dick was frowning, looking past Slade at the corpse. Slade tried not to take offense that a dead man could enrapture Dick above himself. Jealousy was a petty, useless emotion.

“What happened?” Dick asked, stepping closer until he caught sight of the wound. He scowled. “Did you stab him with a fucking tanto knife? Jesus, Slade, that wound is so deep.”

Slade pulled out the offending weapon and offered it to Dick, who took it and sighed. “No, you just managed to puncture his sternum with a flat ground knife. What the hell, Slade, this should have broken off inside of him? This isn’t even a proper throwing knife.” Dick returned the weapon to Slade and crouched down beside the fallen hunter.

“It is,” Slade assured him. “It’s a knife and I throw it.”

Dick snorted despite the circumstance, despite the lack of pulse beneath his fingers as he prodded the cadaver. “This is why no one wants to go on vacations with you,” he muttered. “You’re a gun without a safety that we toss between each other hoping it doesn’t go off while we’re holding it.”

“Wintergreen vacations with me,” Slade protested.

Dick stood up and raised his eyebrows at Slade. “Wintergreen and you have a homoerotic, co-dependent relationship and I don’t want to hear about it right now. I know fuck all about what you two did in your bunkers during World War I, and that’s how I prefer it.”

Against his dignity, Slade crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “How old do you think I am, Grayson, I’m curious.”

With a smirk, Dick snarked, “Old enough to know how to let shit go without losing your head. Or knife.” He gestured to the body.

Then, Slade watched curiously as Dick dug around the man’s person until he procured a trifold wallet. He looked inside, hummed, and then it tossed it at Slade. Slade caught it and opened it, scanning the man’s legal ID.

“He doesn't have a hunting license," Slade offered, glancing up. Dick had pulled out a folded piece of paper, a printed list of names. One of which Slade knew from memory matched the recently deceased’s. There were associated criminal charges on the list too, and Dick confirmed the man's identity and charges before pocketing the list with a please little hum.

While Dick always organized their outings, he was careful to take Slade’s preferences and... tendencies into account. Dick aimed to find a pleasant middle ground between what he wanted to happen and what he recognized could happen, a consideration that Slade appreciated. It was why Dick chose a cabin so close to an established community of sex offenders for this weekend's visitation.  

"You killed a man," Dick muttered, cocking his head at the corpse again. 

"And, pretty bird?" Slade asked as if Dick had informed him the sky was blue. He might as well have.

With that, Slade had Dick's full attention. Hip cocked, arms crossed, lips pursed, Dick was the picture of petulance. 

“ _And_ you’re lucky he’s one of the serial offenders and not someone from town,” Dick griped. “ _And_ you violated the terms of our arrangement,” Dick added, turning up his nose. " _My_ term. The only non-negotiable I have!”

Slade waited for Dick to storm away, but Dick was still standing in front of him, bottom lip just ever so subtly poking out, eyes averted. Which meant that he wanted Slade to touch him. It had taken trial and error, but Slade was learning Dick’s cues. And so Slade hooked an arm around Dick's waist and pulled him close, burying his face in Dick's hair. 

"You're okay," Slade promised Dick, because that’s the sort of thing you were supposed  to say when someone was upset. He could feel Dick's snort against his shoulder.

"I know I am," Dick muttered. He patted Slade's shoulder until Slade released him enough for Dick to blink up at him. "It's just one weekend at a time, Slade. This one didn’t even involve a contract. I’m not- I don’t expect you to change, I wouldn’t ask for that. But pretend I’m a fucking contract and keep your word.” Dick tangled his fingers in his own hair and yanked. “You're such a colossal asshole."

Slade untangled Dick’s fist and ran his own fingers through Dick's hair with gentler hand. "Would it make you feel better if I obtained information on his victims and let them know that he perished in a terrible hunting accident? That they’re not burdened by his continued existence?”

Dick froze, and Slade bit back a smile, never ceasing his ginger petting. Finally, Dick buried his face into Slade's neck and mumbled, "I don't want to scare 'em. We can get his untimely demise published online and probably in the papers wherever he's from."

"Absolutely," Slade said, tracing Dick’s cervical spine and then rubbing along Dick’s shoulder blade . He liked Dick’s shoulder blades, it’s where Dick’d have wings if there was any justice.

"What about the body?" Dick whimpered.

"I'll take care of it," Slade promised.

Although Dick was silent, Slade knew he’d already won. That his olive branch more than sufficed and, if he were lucky, Dick would even offer something about Slade’s honor or goodness. 

He didn’t. Instead, he looked up at Slade, cupped his face, and murmured, “You deserve what you get.” He reached up and ran a thumb along the edge of Slade’s eyepatch. “I don’t blame Adeline or Rose or Joey.” Slade scowled, he couldn’t stop his visible flinch, but Dick continued, “You’ve done a lot of terrible things, Slade. You’ll get yours.” 

And then, Dick looped his arms around Slade’s neck and hopped up, wrapping his legs around Slade’s waist. Slade raised his eyebrows but obligingly spread his hands underneath Dick’s ass to support him. Dick gave a small, but affectionate smile. 

“And I’ll get mine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I. Will see myself out.


End file.
